


Go West Young Man

by theswearingkind



Category: bare: A Pop Opera - Hartmere/Intrabartolo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-14
Updated: 2008-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2141655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theswearingkind/pseuds/theswearingkind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes some time, but he gets there, in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Or Something

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Big Damn Table prompt #10, years.

Jason isn’t exactly sure what he expected, but he’s pretty sure this isn’t it.  This is California—it’s supposed to be hot, right?  Even considering that it’s almost December and he’s more or less in the mountains, he’d thought it would be warmer than this. 

He can almost hear Nadia’s voice in his head, smug and cutting, the sarcasm not quite masking the love beneath the surface: _should’ve done your homework, dumbass._ _Berkeley_ _isn’t a beach town.  Maybe then you wouldn’t be wandering around in jeans and a t-shirt in fifty-degree weather._  

He shivers a little and finally settles for pulling a worn, faded hoodie out of his bag and slipping it on.  He hasn’t really worn it in a couple of years, so he’s not sure why he grabbed it on his way out the door.  He’s glad he did, though, because he’s instantly warmer, and he needs whatever comfort he can get right now.  

Jason’s hungry after the flight, so he walks until he finds a McDonald’s, orders a hamburger, and eats it while he lets himself thaw, a little ashamed of how girly he’s being about the cold.  He’s from Chicago.  Fifty degrees is practically midsummer for him.  Of course, in Chicago he _dressed_ for the cold, coats and scarves and gloves from October to April, and he was mostly inside.  Today he’s dressed for summer, and he’s been walking into the wind for thirty minutes carrying a bitch of a knapsack on his back. 

Because his luck just couldn’t be any better this week, he manages to find a cabbie more talkative than most.  He jabbers on and on in a voice too loud for the tiny confines of the taxi about shit that Jason could not possibly care less about.    

_He won’t want to talk to me.  He probably won’t even look at me.  God, I can’t blame him.  I wouldn’t talk to me, either.  He won’t even—_

“You deaf or something?  I asked you a question.”

Jason jerks back into himself.  “I—what?  I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

The cabbie rolls his eyes.  “I asked if you were here to visit your girlfriend or something.”

Jason feels his lungs get cold.  _Nope.  I’m here to try to win back the only person I’ve ever loved and I haven’t seen him in a year and a half, and he probably still hates me for what I did to him, and I’m so fucking scared that I think I’m going to cry.  I’m gay.  I’m gay.  I’mgayI’mgayI’mgay._  “I—I’m—”  _Just say it_.  “Yeah, my girlfriend,” he says finally.

In his ear, he can hear Peter spit out _fuck you, you coward_ , and it hurts just as much as it did the first time.


	2. Chaos Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the ways he was prepared for this to go wrong, this wasn't one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Big Damn Table prompt #40, sight.

He’s been waiting for almost an hour. The sun is starting to go down in the sky and he can’t feel his own feet. Where the hell is Peter? That guy, the one who had been playing Frisbee—and Jason had barely been able to keep from laughing, because Frisbee? On a _quad_? _At college_? He’d thought people only did that in movies—that guy had said that this was Peter’s dorm, and that he thought Peter got out of class around four-thirty. It’s close to five-forty now, and still no sign of Peter. There aren’t any other entrances to this building, because Jason checked, just to make sure, and it’s not like he can just call Peter, because he probably has a new number and even if he doesn’t, what would Jason say? _Hi, Peter, remember me? I broke up with you almost two years ago and let you move across the country and never once tried to talk to you, but mind if I crash with you tonight?_

Jason snorts. Sure. That’d work.

The doors open behind him and a group of people come rushing out, laughing about something and yelling at each other in voices that suggest that they’ve been friends for long enough to get away with that kind of thing, and they mill around the bottom of the steps, blocking Jason’s view of the quad. There’s a girl that looks a little bit like Nadia, but really not like Nadia at all, because one of the guys has his hand on her waist and he’s looking at her like he wants to throw her down and just fuck her right there, and she’s looking at him like maybe she wouldn’t mind that too much at all.

And then they move away. And the whole fucking world stops. It just _stops_ , like God pressed paused on the Universal Remote Control or something, because the sound is gone and the picture freezes and Jason has forgotten his own name and maybe everything else too, because Jason sees _him_.

Peter’s not by himself, but he might as well be, for all the attention Jason pays to anyone else with him. He’s coming across the quad, and his mouth is moving but he’s too far away for the words to mean anything yet, and all Jason can do is stare. Peter’s lost some of the baby-softness that he used to have through the face, and judging by the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest, he’s filled out a little in other places, too. He’s dyed his hair, bleached it until it’s almost white, and cut it differently, so that it spikes up a little in the front, and the overall effect is much more _adult_ than Jason remembers, and he’s hit by a wave of lust so strong that he almost can’t breathe. Because Peter is smiling and saying something else and he’s coming towards Jason but hasn’t seen him yet, and that girl he’s with should just back the fuck off _yesterday_ , because right now Jason can’t deal with anything other than Peter, walking towards him, two years older and immeasurably beautiful.

Jason manages to stand up without once taking his eyes off of Peter, who _goddammit_ still hasn’t noticed him. In his head he hears all sorts of things running into one another— _I’m so sorry forgive me please I couldn’t stay there one more second without you you’re so gorgeous I’d forgotten how perfect you are can I stay with you forever I swear I’ll never leave you ever again please God let him love me let him love me still—_ and he doesn’t really know which one he’ll say first, because it seems like his brain is disconnected from the rest of his body, but he thinks the main message— _I love you I love you I love you—_ will be pretty clear. 

So for that one second he thinks it might be alright. He lets himself breathe.

And so of course that’s when it goes to hell, that’s when Jason’s stomach heaves suddenly, completely, nausea washing over him in sheets of ice, and his vision goes black and shaky, knees not quite buckling, white noise in his brain, skin itching like a sunburn. Because of all the things he’d imagined happening when he got here—Peter telling him to fuck off, Peter telling him to go to hell, Peter telling him that he still loves him and yes, yes, he can stay—the one thing he _hadn’t_ imagined was the one thing he probably should have been expecting every single second since he left Chicago. He never imagined this—some guy, some fucking random asshole who Jason wants to kill, rip limb from fucking limb and beat the hell out of, just walking up to Peter and slipping an arm around his waist like he had every fucking right to do so, and Peter looking at him like this was just _right_ , and leaning over and kissing him, not a passionate, drawn-out thing, but a familiar thing, just a hello, just enough to tear Jason to shreds.

And it makes perfect sense, in some fucked-up bizarre way, because Peter is gorgeous and amazing and perfect and _of_ _course_ someone wants him, of course he is with someone, of course. Still. Of all the things Jason had imagined, of all the ways he was prepared for this to go wrong—

Somehow, it just never occurred to him that Peter might have moved on.


	3. The Dice Were Loaded from the Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life has a funny way of fucking with your head. An interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Big Damn Table prompt #41, shapes. Specific prompt from didaverseend, who asked for "immediately after the last update, when Peter notices Jason there."  

“I told you that already, Peter, he’s a fucking prick.” 

“I know—but God, Livvie, that man is such an _asshole_.  I mean, he hadn’t even started class yet.”  Peter runs a hand through his hair, annoyed.  It wasn’t even his fault, really.  He’d been practically in the building—nearly half an hour early, thank you very much—when he realized he’d forgotten the textbook he’d borrowed from his T.A. for his two o’clock history class, and he had to go back for it.  His dorm was nearly all the way across campus, and he’d missed the elevator when he _finally_ made it back to the English building, so he ended up trudging up four flights of stairs, only to find the door to his classroom locked.  His professor had waved at him—fucking _waved_ —but wouldn’t let him in.  “Fucking bastard.” 

“Decker’s a dick, okay?  End of story.  He did the same thing to me last year.  Locked the door and wouldn’t let me in even though I was only, like, a minute late.  And it was a fucking test day, too.”  Livia adjusts the strap on her bag, dark red hair falling into her eyes.  She brushes it aside impatiently, and Peter wonders, not for the first time, why she doesn’t just get it cut.  “Ended up costing me a whole letter grade.”  

“That’s so _wrong_ —I mean, what does he expect us to do?”

“I don’t know, maybe be on time?” comes a voice from beside them. 

Peter looks up, already grinning— _Eric—_ and smiles into the kiss his boyfriend presses to his lips.  Suddenly the world doesn’t seem like it’s out to piss him off.  “You on his side now?” he asks flirtatiously. 

“Oh, absolutely,” Eric murmurs, leaning back in.

Livia clears her throat loudly.  “A _hem._ Outsiders present.”

Peter breaks away, shooting her a dirty look.  “Is there a problem here?” he asks, only slightly distracted by the way Eric nuzzles his neck, eyelashes grazing against Peter’s skin.  Okay, maybe more than slightly distracted.

“She’s just jealous,” he mumbles against Peter’s throat. 

Livia scoffs.  “Oh, yeah, that’s got to be it.”

“It _is,_ ” Eric says, smiling, arms looped around Peter’s waist tugging them closer together until their hips align.  “You’re jealous of my hot boyfriend.  And all the hot sex we have.” 

Peter blushes, because—because, well, he’s still Catholic underneath it all.  “I don’t think she’s that interested in our sex life, Eric.”

“I sure am.” 

“Livvie!”  

She shrugs, grinning at him.  “What?  You’re hot, he’s hot.  I’m willing to bet that the sex is pretty hot, too—and if it’s not, I totally don’t want to know, because I’m basing some fairly explicit fantasies off of the crumbs you guys drop.” 

Peter wrinkles his nose.  If there’s one thing he _really_ doesn’t want to think about, it’s Livia getting off thinking about Eric and him.  “Ew.” 

Livia laughs.  “God, Peter.  You’re such a prude.  Good thing I have Eric to fill me in on all the juicy details.” 

Peter turns his attention back to his boyfriend.  “You better not, Eric, or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll _what_?” Eric asks, low, smirking.  “You gonna punish me?  Tie me up and—” he waggles his eyebrows in a way that Peter finds far too endearing, “—and spank me?”

“Can I watch?” Livia cuts in.  “Ooh, will you wear your old uniform?  God, that would be _awesome._ ”

Peter rolls his eyes, amusement winning out over embarrassment.  “Livvie, you are such a little perv—I don’t know how you ever…ever…”

_Oh, Jesus fuck._

Jason. 


	4. All This Was Anticipated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he sees them.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Big Damn Table prompt #94, independence.  Title from Leonard Cohen's poem "Letter."

There are things Jason knows. 

His name, for one.  Jason Alexander McConnell—the middle name after his grandfather, the first a whim of his mother, who had been going through a romance novel phase when she gave birth.  There’s his age—just turned 20, even though he mostly feels older, heavier, arthritic around the edges and too tired for almost everything.  He knows how to sink a jump shot from half-court, sometimes farther if luck is on his side.  It usually isn’t.

There are things he doesn’t know, too.  He doesn’t know shit about art or classical music or anything that doesn’t lead directly to an MBA.  He doesn’t know why sometimes he can see better with the lights off or why his little toe is a fraction longer than the one next to it, and he doesn’t know how to cook anything that doesn’t come in a box with instructions printed on the side. 

And then there are the other things, the things that pass so far beyond his understanding that he doesn’t even try to grasp them.

Jason always thought that Peter was one of the things he just _knew_ , that being in love with Peter had given him some kind of handbook that let him on all of Peter’s secrets.  It wasn’t until they broke up—if it could even be called breaking up, since no one knew they’d ever been together in the first place—that he found out that he was wrong, that Peter had depths to him that even Jason had never managed to find, reserves of strength that held him away from Jason until he could escape out west and start his life over. 

But this— _this—_ this is one of those other things.  It’s maybe _the_ other thing, the only other thing.  Nothing has ever gone so far beyond him before.  Nothing.

It’s just.  It’s Peter.  Peter, _his_ Peter, only not his anymore, and some fundamental part of Jason doesn’t understand that. 

He knows the exact second Peter sees him, because one moment Peter is smiling and he’s relaxed and happy and beautiful, and the next his face is sheet-white, drained, and he’s not anything. 

They face off for a few seconds, Peter’s big eyes meeting his frozen and cold, and then Jason says, “Hey, Peter,” awkwardly, trying out a smile that feels broken.   

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Peter asks, voice flat. 

“Peter, please, I just need to talk to you.”

“I asked you a question, Jason.  What the _fuck_ are—?”

“ _You’re_ Jason?” the girl blurts out.  And Jason can’t help but feel a tiny, tiny moment of triumph, because if Peter’s friends have heard of him, then he can’t be entirely forgotten.  “Holy shit.” 

“I—uh—”

“Livvie, shut up,” Peter says, still in that same flat tone.  “Whatever you’re here for, Jason, I don’t care.  Just leave.”

“Peter?” the guy says questioningly.  “Peter, baby?”  Jason has to dig his fingernails into his palms to keep from knocking that piece of shit unconscious when he calls Peter _baby_ so familiarly, like he does it everyday.  He probably does. 

“It’s fine,” Peter says, eyes not moving from Jason’s face.  “It’s nothing.  Let’s go.” 

“Peter, who is—what’s going on?”  The guy wraps a hand around Peter’s wrist as he speaks.  Jason fights the urge to kill him.  Painfully. 

Peter finally looks away from Jason, locks eyes with—this person.  “Nothing, Eric,” he says.  “Let’s go.”

He starts to walk away, and Jason’s stomach clenches, and he grabs Peter without really meaning to, without really even being aware that he is.  “Peter, _please_ ,” he says, “just hear me out,” even as Peter jerks his arm free, and Jason’s palm burns, remembering the feel of Peter’s skin. 

“I don’t want to _hear you out_ , Jason,” Peter says.  “I don’t want to talk to you.  I don’t want to be around you.  I don’t want you _here_.”

“Peter,” he says again, helplessly, reaching out.

“Hey!” Eric says, pushing between them.  He looks from Jason to Peter and back again, and then says, “Look, man, maybe you should go,” to Jason, but what he clearly means is _leave, now._

Jason could maybe handle Peter telling him to leave, but this guy—this _guy_.  “Why don’t you just back the fuck off?” he snarls, and he really honestly doesn’t want to be an asshole, but Eric is still touching Peter, and that’s just not okay. 

“Eric!” Peter yells, and just barely manages to catch Eric’s arm before he swings.  He glares at Jason, and it’s angry but it’s _something_ , not just a complete absence of anything.  “Don’t bother.” 

“I—I’m sorry,” Jason says.  He even almost means it.  “Peter.  Please.”  He pauses, and Peter just shakes his head.  “Please,” he whispers. 

God must be on his side, today.  Because something behind Peter’s eyes shifts, and he sighs, so heavily, and murmurs, “God, Jason,” before turning to Eric. 

“Eric,” he starts, “I—I have to go.  Talk to him.  Just for a little while.” 

Eric glances back at Jason.  “But I—”

“Eric,” Peter says, and something quiet and intimate passes between the two of them that makes Jason’s chest throb. 

“I—yeah, okay,” Eric says finally, running a hand through his hair, and Peter smiles at him, sweet, aching.  “…We still on for tonight?” 

Peter nods.  “Yeah.   _Yeah_ , of course, this is—nothing, Eric, this is nothing.”

Eric looks doubtful.  “Because if you can’t, you know it’s okay—”

“No, I’ll be there.  I _want_ to be there.”  Peter grins.  “The ‘with you’ part is implied.”

Eric kind of laughs.  “Okay.”  He scratches at his cheek for a minute.  “I guess I’ll go, then.”  He takes a deep breath and then smiles, but it’s a little forced and hollow and worried.  Very deliberately, he leans in and kisses Peter full on the mouth. 

_Staking his territory_ , Jason thinks, and can’t look.

“Let’s go,” Peter says finally, after what seems like an eternity, and when Jason finally gathers up the courage to look at him, Eric is gone, and that girl, too, and it’s just the two of them, finally, the two of them alone.  


	5. Just the Characters Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My heart's a trampoline, so feel free to jump up and down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Big Damn Table prompt #14, green. Title and summary from "Coming Clean," by Jared Woods.

It’s just a dorm room.  Jason doesn’t know what he was expecting.

It looks like a room Peter might live in.  There are posters on the walls of bands Peter always liked and movies he used to try to get Jason to watch with him, but there are also pictures of him with people Jason doesn’t recognize, a flyer from a GSA event, a string of Mardi Gras beads hanging off the doorknob. 

It looks like the kind of room Peter would _like_ living in.

“Who’s your roommate?” Jason asks finally. 

“Don’t have one,” Peter replies shortly.  “I got sort of fucking sick of roommates after a while.”

That hurts just as much as it was supposed to.  “Oh,” Jason says.  “That’s fair, I guess.”

Peter’s moving restlessly around the room, not really looking at Jason.  “Look,” he says.  “I’m not gonna – I don’t know what you’re doing here.  I mean, I can guess, but it’s not – I’m not looking to play catch-up, Jason.  I don’t give a shit about what you’ve been doing and I don’t want to tell you about me, either.  I only said I’d talk to you so that Eric wouldn’t punch you.”

It was a nice thing to do, but Jason wishes he hadn’t.  He’s spoiling for a fight, has been for a while now, and he’d like nothing better than to take the last two years out on Peter’s boyfriend’s face. 

“I really, really don’t want to talk to you, Jason,” Peter continues, “so you can just – ”

“I told my parents,” Jason blurts out. 

Peter freezes.  “I – what?”

“I told them,” Jason repeats, and it’s the truth.  He still kind of can’t believe he did it, but.  He did. 

“You told them about – ” Peter stops himself.  “About us?” he tries again.

“No, just that – that I’m gay.”  It’s still weird, saying it out loud. 

Peter inhales sharply.  “How did – I mean, was it – how did it go?”

“It.  It wasn’t good,” Jason says finally.  “They sort of.  They cut me off.  Like, everything.”

“Jesus,” Peter breathes, dropping down onto the couch heavily.  “Are you okay?” 

Jason shrugs, tries to act like it doesn’t hurt to think about.  “I hadn’t been taking money from them for a while.  And I’m on scholarship, so as long as I keep my grades up, I’m fine with school.” 

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.  I mean, it could have been worse.”

“Yeah,” Peter echoes softly.  He’s quiet for a few more moments, and when he speaks again his voice has lost some of its edge.  “I – I think that’s great, Jason.  I really do.”

“Thanks,” Jason says. 

“I mean it,” Peter stresses.  “I think it’s great.”

“Yeah, well.”

“No, I – I know how hard it must have been for you.  I know you – I know that wasn’t in your plan, Jason.  I’m – ” he pauses, swallows hard.  “I’m proud of you, Jason.”

“I did it for you,” Jason says, the words out of his mouth before he really realizes it. 

And.  Judging by the look on Peter’s face, it was the wrong thing to say.

“Oh, no,” Peter says slowly, dangerous and low.  “No, you don’t get to say that.  You don’t get to come in here and say that, Jason.  Not now.” 

“It’s the truth,” and Jesus Christ, he wishes he could stop the flood of words he can feel rising up inside him, “it’s the truth, Peter, and I fucked up but there are things, there are things you don’t know, there are reasons I did what I did and if you knew what they are you might – if you knew, Peter, if you _knew_ – ”

“You slept with Ivy,” Peter says. 

Jason’s head snaps up, finding Peter’s eyes.  There’s still a trace of hurt in them.  “You—you _knew_ about that?” he asks finally, when his heart has started beating again.

Peter laughs, short, disbelieving.  “ _Knew_?  Of course I knew.  Everyone knew.”

“But—but I never—I never told anyone.  Did she—she didn’t tell you, did she?” 

The way Peter is looking at him makes him feel about two inches tall.  “Jesus, Jason.”  He shakes his head, running his fingers through the short, white-blonde strands.  “She didn’t tell anybody anything.  She didn’t have to.” 

“But if—”

“Look, do I have to spell it out for you?  It was just—just that obvious, okay?  One day you guys were friends and she was all over you and you flirted with her all the time, and then we came back from Spring Break and—and you wouldn’t even talk to her outside of practice and she couldn’t get within twenty feet of you without looking like she was going to die.  I—no one had to say anything, Jason.”

_God._

“Peter, I.  I—look, I should have told you about Ivy, okay?  I should have told you, but—”

“You should have _told_ me?” Peter cuts in, incredulously.  “You should have—?  You shouldn’t have _done_ it, Jason.  Not even because of me—I mean, you’d already made it clear that we weren’t together anymore, and that’s—whatever, but, fuck, Jason, she was your friend.  She was your friend and you knew how she felt about you, and you did it anyway.” 

Jason knows that.  He _knows_ that.  “I thought—I thought it might change something.”

For a second the words hang in the air, heavy, and then something goes wide and hurt in Peter’s eyes, and then he won’t even look at Jason anymore.  “You’re a shitty, shitty person, Jason,” he says furiously.  “You never think about consequences.  You never think about _anything_ except yourself.  What if she’d gotten pregnant, Jason?  Did you even think about that?” 

“I—”

“You didn’t, did you?”

“Peter—”

“You—you slept with her, Jason, and then you just fucking _abandoned_ her.  How could you do that?  How could you—you made her think that you cared about her and then you just _left_ her.  Because you couldn’t make up your fucking mind about what you wanted.”

Jason’s never been great in English, but even he’s getting the subtext here.  “Peter, look, I—”

“No, you know what?  I don’t want to hear it.  I just—I just really don’t want to hear anything you’ve got to say, because it’s not going to change anything, and I—it’s just pointless, because I have to go soon anyway, and it’s just—”

“You have to go?  Where?  I—why?” 

Peter takes a deep breath before he answers.  “I have plans.”

Jesus.  How Jason had managed to forget _that_ , he has no fucking clue.  _“I want to be there.  The ‘with you’ part is implied.”_ And that stupid fucking little laugh Eric had given, that stupid fucking laugh. 

Peter’s still talking.  “Do you have a hotel room?  Anything like that?”  The fact that he even cares enough to ask kind of blows Jason’s mind. 

Jason shakes his head.  It seems, now, like the worst kind of hubris, but he honestly hadn’t thought he’d need one.

“Jesus, Jason, you just – you just got on a goddamn plane and flew across the country?  That’s it?”  Peter exhales, long and frustrated.  “You can stay here, then.  Just until I get back, then you have to leave.”

“Okay,” Jason says quietly.  “I – thanks, Peter.” 

“Don’t thank me.  Just – just don’t think that this means more than it does.  And I mean it, Jason, you have to leave when I get back.  Okay?  You can’t stay here.”

Yeah.  He knows.

*

Peter is gone from 8:32 p.m. to 6:49 a.m.  That’s 497 minutes, and Jason knows because he counts every single one, staring bleary-eyed and cold at the glowing red numbers on Peter’s digital clock. 

He’s not an idiot.  He knows where Peter is.  He knows, and it’s killing him.  It’s bamboo shoots under his fingernails and hot coals on the soles of his feet, enormous shakers of salt emptied into the gaping wound that seeing Peter with _him_ tore open in Jason’s chest.  It’s a thousand times worse than anything he’d ever imagined, a million times worse than what he’d expected, and nowhere near as much as he deserves. 

God, he deserves so much worse. 

Peter had trusted him, had _loved_ him, and Jason had—he’d been terrified, scared shitless that it really _wasn’t_ just a phase he’d grow out of, that this might actually be it.  He’d let that fear touch him, wrap itself around every part of him, and he’d—he’d looked at Peter, and he’d loved him, and still he’d chosen something else.

And that’s what it all comes down to, really—fear and disgust and shame and love and everything else aside, it all came down to one moment, one second when Jason had looked at Peter, had seen him trembling, desperate and beautiful and alone, and he’d turned away.  He’d walked away, and the fact that he’d honestly believed he was doing the right thing doesn’t matter at all, because the truth is, he’d loved Peter, loved him like the world was ending, and he’d fooled himself into believing that there was something more important than that. 

He’d picked someone else.  He can’t really blame Peter for doing the same. 

He can’t blame him, but he doesn’t have to like it.  In fact, Jason’s pretty sure he’s genetically predisposed to not like it.  He doesn’t have any claim on Peter, he knows that, but he can’t just _stop_ —

Jason’s brain knows that Peter isn’t his anymore.  It’s the rest of him that has trouble remembering.  It’s the rest of him that roars with a need so strong that he almost can’t believe it— _wouldn’t_ believe it, in fact, if he couldn’t feel the effects traveling through his bloodstream, seeping into his organs, pushing out through the pores of his skin. 

It’s the rest of him that doesn’t give a good goddamn what Jason’s brain has to say.

The door opens without warning, interrupting his complete lack of sleep, and he doesn’t have time to move back to the couch, to pretend that he didn’t spend the night inhaling Peter’s scent from the pillowcase.  He should probably care more than he does. 

Peter’s eyes, when they light on him, are shadowed and heavy.  If he cares that Jason’s on his bed, he doesn’t show it.  It doesn’t even seem to register.

Peter rubs a hand over his face and sits down on the other bed.  His clothes are kind of rumpled, like maybe he slept in them—or like maybe they were in a dropped in a heap on the floor in a hurry, and Jason _really_ can’t go down that path right now. 

“Hey,” Peter says finally, releasing the word on a long exhale. 

“Hey,” Jason says back.  The collar of Peter’s shirt is stretched a little, as though someone has been tugging at it.  He thinks he sees the shadow of a dark purple mark nestled in the hollow at the bottom of Peter’s throat peeking out from under the cotton fabric. 

Jason knows what that hollow tastes like.     

“Did you sleep?” Peter asks tiredly.  Jason wonders briefly if it took anything out of Peter to ask that, if the Peter he knew would even have known how to ask such an astonishingly direct question. 

Jason can be brave, too, sometimes.  “No,” he says honestly, and Peter nods in a distracted way, like he’d expected that answer.

But maybe it’s not bravery, after all.  Maybe it’s stupidity, because his next words are out of his mouth because he can stop them.  “Did you?” 

“W-what?”  The look on Peter’s face might be funny, under other circumstances.    

“I—did you sleep with him?”  He hates to ask, he knows he doesn’t have any right, but—but fuck if he can stop, because he has to know.

“What makes you think you get to ask me that?” Peter demands, and there’s an anger in his voice that Jason hasn’t heard in a long, long time, and a sudden alertness.  “You don’t get to ask me that.”

“Did you?”

“I _told_ you don’t ask me that,” Peter says, getting up and moving farther away.  Jason feels the distance like a blank space inside himself.   

“Did you?” he asks, getting a little more desperate. 

“Fuck off.”

“Peter, please God, I have to—did you sleep with—”

“Yes!”  Peter nearly shouts the word, eyes blazing, before fading back into himself, looking more tired than Jason ever remembers Peter being, and he wonders if it’s because they’re fighting, or because Peter hasn’t been to sleep.  “Jesus, Jason, what difference does it make?” 

Jason laughs a little hysterically.  What _difference_? 

“He’s my boyfriend,” Peter says, a little more calmly.  “We’ve been together for nearly three months.  We’re sleeping together, yeah.”  It’s the unspoken _of course_ in his words that pushes Jason over the edge.

“Took us longer than that,” he chokes out, cursing his lungs for refusing to fill with air.

“Yeah, well,” Peter says, in that voice that isn’t quite Peter’s anymore.  “Things were different.”

_How,_ Jason wants to ask.  _How were they different?_

“Jason.  Don’t…don’t make this harder than it has to be, okay?  I’m…look, he’s my boyfriend.  And I…care about him.  A lot.  He’s a good guy.  He’s smart and funny and—I mean, you _saw_ him, you know how—”

“Stop it.”  Jason can’t listen to that.  “I don’t want to hear about that.”

“What do you want to hear about, then?” Peter rakes a hand through his hair.  “Jesus, Jason.  You’re the one who came here.  You invited yourself into my life after two years.  You don’t get to set the rules.  Not anymore.”

_When did I ever?_ Jason wonders. 

“You _asked_ ,” Peter says finally.  “You wanted to know, Jason.  You came _here_ , for God’s sake.”

“I know,” he mumbles.

“What did you think was going to happen?” Peter asks, and the honest confusion in his voice tears at Jason.  “Did you think you could just—just show up, and that’d be it?  Back to the way it was?” 

“No,” Jason protests, but it’s weak and he knows it. 

“Well, what, then?  What were you expecting, Jason?  I—I have a _life_ here, Jason, I have friends and classes and a job and I have Eric, and goddamn it, Jason, I’m happy—for once in my whole life, I’m happy and I’m not terrified that it’s all going to fall apart, and now you—Really, Jason, what did you think was going to—?”

There’s probably more that he means to say, but then Jason is kissing him. 

It’s not something he _meant_ to do, certainly not something he planned.  But somewhere in between Peter saying he was happy and Peter getting close enough for Jason to feel the body heat radiating off of him in angry waves, Jason’s brain short-circuited and all he could think was _yes.  Peter._

The kiss lasts maybe two milliseconds before Peter pushes him away, wild-eyed.  He looks angrier than Jason can ever remember, and he’s clenching and unclenching his fists like he might punch Jason any second.  They hang there in the aftermath for long seconds, Jason’s stomach twisting into knots, because this really is a new Peter, one he isn’t entirely sure he knows at all. 

“Peter,” he says at last, stumbling a little over the weight of the word, unfamiliar in his mouth after so long, “Peter, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

And there’s _definitely_ more he means to say, but then Peter is kissing him.

Peter’s mouth is open and hot against his, tongue twisting furiously into his mouth, and it’s so good, it’s fucking amazing, and Peter’s hands are fisting through his shirt, pulling Jason closer, their bodies aligning, pressing together tight and perfect.  He drags in a breath around the edge of Peter’s mouth as he backs Peter into the door, hands cupping around the back of Peter’s head, every inch of him full awake and crying out.


	6. My Only Excuse for Not Doing Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in the space of two years, Jason had begun to think he’d imagined it all. The specifics of them—the way they fit together like puzzle pieces, how his skin came alive everywhere Peter touched him—and he’d convinced himself that it couldn’t have been everything he remembered. That he was fever-dreaming it into existence, his mind remembering it better than it was as a sort of punishment.
> 
> Jason has never been happier to be wrong. Because this? This isn’t everything he remembered. 
> 
> This is more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Big Damn Table prompt #34, not enough. Title from Doug Stone's "Too Busy Being in Love."

Somewhere in the space of two years, Jason had begun to think he’d imagined it all.  The specifics of _them_ —the way they fit together like puzzle pieces, how his skin came alive everywhere Peter touched him—and he’d convinced himself that it couldn’t have been everything he remembered.  That he was fever-dreaming it into existence, his mind remembering it better than it was as a sort of punishment.

Jason has never been happier to be wrong.  Because this?  This isn’t everything he remembered. 

This is _more_. 

This is two years of living on the goddamn scraps of memory he’d saved up, and realizing how few there actually were (because the truth is, Jason had never taken the time to remember Peter, not really; he’d been so busy trying to be everything to everyone that he’d missed the whole point.  It was like taking notes all semester, then sleeping through the final exam.).  But _this_ —this is living in color after a world of black and white. 

It’s seconds, that’s all, all and everything.               

“Jason,” Peter says, soft, in a voice he knows from countless nights when the only light they had was what they could make between them.  “ _Jason_ , yes, I—oh, yes, I…I…” 

Jason has spent two years waiting for this—he waits for what comes next, for the _love you_ to follow, and in that never-ending second, he sees heaven, raw and pure and blinding, a kiss as familiar as waking up in the morning and as shockingly new as every kiss with Peter has ever been, everywhere and nowhere at once, and he’s lost and he’s found and lost again, and he’ll spend every day for the rest of his life looking for himself inside Peter if only Peter will let him—

“No,” Peter says suddenly.

“Hmm?” Jason says absently, still adrift, hands exploring the planes of Peter’s back.

“No— _no_ , Jason,” Peter says, pushing him back and falling away.  “I—no.  I’m not doing this.”

It’s like watching a foreign film: Jason can hear the words, but they don’t make sense.  “What?” he asks dumbly, and the look on Peter’s face is scaring him.

“This is—no, Jason.  This isn’t going to happen.”

“But—but you—we just _kissed_ , Peter, you can’t just—”

“It was a mistake,” he mutters, looking everywhere but at Jason.  “It was a mistake, Jason.  I started thinking about—Eric, and then I just…it was a mistake.” 

The sudden cold between them is stark and barren, a tundra of feeling. 

“What did you come here for, Jason?” Peter asks abruptly, voice almost bloody in its rawness.  “You had to know that I couldn’t just—” He breaks off, curses a little under his breath, and when he looks up again, his eyes are red and filled with angry tears.  “I waited for you,” he says finally.  “I waited for a whole fucking year.  I could barely go to class.  I hardly left my room.  I just—I mean, I kept thinking that you would come.  But you didn’t.  And I looked up and it was May, and I couldn’t remember a damn thing about the whole year except that _you didn’t come_.”  He pauses, wipes furiously at the tears stealing down his face.  “I couldn’t live my life like that, Jason.  I couldn’t wait for you forever, when you weren’t ever going to be here.”

“I’m here now,” Jason says, weakly.

“But I didn’t know that!” Peter cries.  “I didn’t know that you were going to just show up one day.  I spent a year waiting for you to do that, Jason, and you didn’t, so don’t—don’t act like this is my fault.  You showed up, okay?  You did.  It was just…too late.”

“Don’t say that,” Jason whispers, desperate.  “Don’t say that.  It’s not too—”

“Oh, God, yes it is,” Peter mumbles, and he sounds as miserable as Jason feels, sounds like his heart is shattering in his chest.  “I can’t do this.” 

Jason can’t move.  He can’t think, or speak, or cry or yell or do anything at all.  He can’t feel any part of himself.  He’s numb.  He’s ice.  He’s nothing.  

“You should go,” Peter says, quiet as death.  “I think—I think you need to go.  Go home, Jason.” 

_I can’t go home_ , Jason doesn’t say.  _Home is where you are_. 

“I need you—I need you to go, okay?  Jason?  Jason.  Just go.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry it can’t be what you want, but it just can’t.  I’m not—I just think you need to go, Jason, I need for you to go.”

“Peter,” he says, soft, failing. 

“Jason, _please_.”  Peter won’t look at him.  “It’s just—just too late for any of this.  You need to go.” 

“You want me to go?” he asks finally, after a silence that stretches between them for far longer than he knows how to handle. 

“I—you should.”

He swallows hard.  “That’s not what I asked.”  Jason catches Peter’s gaze, blue-glass eyes scared but determined.  “Do you want me to go?” 

“Jason—”

“‘Cause—‘cause if you honestly don’t want me here, then I’ll go.  But if this is—if this is something else—if it’s about…about _him_ , then I—”

“I want—Jason, I want you to go.”  The words are quiet, and a little shaky.  But they’re said. 

Jason goes.

*

He goes, but there’s something left, still, one last thing.

The phone is heavy in his hand, weighing him down.  He dials the number almost mechanically, fingers shaking a little bit, heart pounding away in his chest, and listens to the ringing—one, two, three times before Peter picks up.

“Hello,” Peter says, and he sounds tired and old and nothing and everything like the boy Jason fell in love with. 

“Peter,” he says, because just saying the name makes things a little better.  “Peter, don’t hang up, okay?  Please.  I just need to talk to you, yeah?  I just need to say something, and then I’m out of your life, I swear.  Is…is that okay, Peter?  Will you just listen to me?”

There’s no sound on the other end of the line, and he takes it as a yes.

Jason takes a deep breath that hurts his chest.  “Look, I—Peter, I started thinking.  About what you said about why I came out there.  And yeah, I wanted…you, but that’s—I mean, that wasn’t all.  I think—I think I needed to see that you were okay.  That I hadn’t managed to ruin you, completely, that there was one thing I’d touched that had turned out good anyway.  Because everything I do seems to just fall apart, Peter, and I know it’s all my fault but—I just needed to know you were alright.  That you were alright without me. 

“And…and I know that you probably think I’m just saying this now because it doesn’t really mean anything anymore, but…I’m sorry, Peter.  God, I’m so, so sorry.  I messed up everything.  I was scared, okay?  And I know that’s a shitty excuse but it’s the truth, I was so fucking scared of everybody and everything and I let that get in the way of the only good thing I had.  Jesus, Peter, if I could undo everything.  I swear to God, there’s not much in my life I’d change, but that.  I’d change that.  Because I’ve spent two years trying not to be with you, Peter, and I can’t do it, okay?  I’m not—I’m so, so sorry, Peter, I didn’t want to put all this on you, I wasn’t going to.  But I’m not going to lie to you anymore.  I did that enough before, and I’m sorry for that, too.  I—you should have been able to trust me, Peter, you shouldn’t have had to worry about me.  I should have taken care of you.  I tried to.  I thought I was.  I’m such a fucking coward, Peter, I couldn’t even tell you this in person.  I wanted to.  I tried to.

“So all I’m—all I’m really trying to say is that I’m sorry.  I’m sorry about everything, Peter.  I’m sorry about Ivy and I’m sorry that I didn’t believe you and I’m sorry that I wasn’t enough for you, in the end.  I’m sorry that I—I couldn’t be the person you needed, Peter, but you have to know that I tried.  I tried.  Jesus Christ, Peter.  And I’m—I’m going to let you go now, because I know the last thing you want is for me to tell you all this shit, but—I had to tell you, Peter, I had to let you know.  Because I can’t lie to you anymore.  If I were a better person, I wouldn’t tell you this, but I’m not, right?  And I love you.  God, Peter, I love you so much.  And I know it’s too late and I know it doesn’t mean anything anymore and I know that you—you don’t feel the same, not anymore, but I love you.  I’ve loved you since I was twelve years old, Peter.  I don’t—I really don’t think I’ll ever stop.

“And I think—I think that’s what I really came out there to say,” he finishes, soft, throat aching like it hasn’t been used in months.  The air on the other end of the line is still, and he’s not entirely sure that he hasn’t just been talking to himself for a couple of minutes, that Peter didn’t just hang up the phone at some point past _hello_.  It’s quiet for a few seconds too long.  And then he hears a sharp intake of breath through the receiver, and the line goes dead. 


	7. Like Photographs and Memories of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason gets by, because there’s not really anything else he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Big Damn Table prompt #73, light. Title from Savage Garden's "The Lover After Me."

Jason gets by, because there’s not really anything else he can do.  He sleeps and runs and studies and eats and makes and misses jump shots, but none of it really matters.  He’s pretty much given up on anything making sense anymore, because none of it does.  Everything is just a hazy kind of brokenness, wrong in some way he can’t really define, and if no one seems to notice, that’s okay. 

He has dreams, sometimes, about that day out in California and the blessed God way that Peter’s lips touched his like forgiveness.  In his dreams Peter doesn’t pull away from him, and they slide together like water, making love for hours, until finally he wakes up, sheets wet with tears and something else. 

Other nights he has nightmares.  Peter and Eric, on the quad, in Peter’s dorm room, anywhere and everywhere, together and in love.  Those nights he wakes up dry-heaving, drenched in a cold sweat, and he doesn’t go back to sleep. 

Last night was one of the good nights, when he didn’t dream about anything at all, just slept, dark and quiet in the black of his room.  He’s marginally more alive today than he has been in a couple of weeks, alive enough to stand around and make small, stupid talk with a couple of girls from his lit class and Marcus, the captain of the team.  One of the girls is short, with long red hair, and she keeps giving him a look like she’d let him fuck her if he asked.  He doesn’t respond to her not-so-subtle attempts at flirtation, just shakes his head when she asks if he’s going to the party on the row tonight.  

“I have a paper due Monday,” he says, by way of explanation.

“ _Dude_ ,” Marcus crows disbelievingly.  “A paper?  Come on, man.  You’ve got a fuckin’ 3.8 GPA.  Lighten up.”

“I didn’t get a 3.8 by lightening up,” Jason says, a little sharper than he’d meant to, then sighs.  “Sorry, man.  Long week.”

“It’s cool, man,” Marcus shrugs.  “You should still come.”

“Yeah,” the redhead urges.  “You should be there.  Everyone’s going.  I’ll be there.”

_Then count me out_ , Jason wants to say.  “I—yeah, okay.” 

The redhead—Lizzie?  Lily?—practically lights up.  “Yeah?  Great!  Oh my God, we’ll have the best time.  I’ll totally make it worth your while.”  She giggles a little.  Jason fights the urge to hit her. 

Marcus claps a hand on his back in that guy way that absolutely screams _dude, you’re getting laid_ , and it’s times like these that Jason wishes he’d had the guts to tell everyone – not just his parents – the truth.

“So do you want to go together?” Lizzie-Lily-Linda asks.  “You could pick me up at nine-thirty and we could—”

He’s saved by the ring of his cell phone, rescuing him from certain death.  He doesn’t even bother to look at the display, just flicks it open and answers.  “Hello?”

“Jason?”

And it’s one of those times when the world stops, because that voice—he thought he’d never hear that voice again, ever. 

It only feels like he stands there in mute shock for a second, but it must be longer, because he hears, “Jason.  Jason?  Are you even—Jason?”

“Peter?” he says, and he sounds like somebody else, weak and raw as glass. 

“Jason?  I thought you’d hung up on me.”  And Jason can’t help but laugh a little, a tiny crazy spurt of laughter, because the idea of him hanging up on Peter is just ridiculous, because drowning men don’t push away life preservers and starving men don’t refuse food and Jason does not hang up on Peter.  That’s just the way it works.

“I—no,” he says.  “I’m here.”

“Good.  That’s—good.”

The girls and Marcus are looking at him like he’s gone more than a little crazy, which is, he realizes, probably a viable option.  Maybe he’s gone nuts and is hallucinating this whole thing.  It seems more likely than Peter actually calling him.

“Jason, look.  I, uh.  I kinda need some help here.” 

“Help?” he asks stupidly. 

There’s a little laugh on the other end of the line, the one he hasn’t heard in years, and it’s—it’s too much.  “I need your help, Jason.”

“What—what do you need?”

“See, that’s—I mean, that’s just it.  I need directions.”

“Directions,” Jason repeats slowly, something still not quite clicking. 

“Yeah.  See, the thing is, I don’t really know my way around campus.”

“You—you’ve been living there for two years, Peter.”

This time it’s more than a _little_ laugh.  “God, Jason, are you high?  _Your_ campus.”

Everything kind of goes while for a second, and he thinks he feels his knees buckle under him.  “You’re—you’re here?” he croaks, and he didn’t even realize it, but he’s crying.  “Peter, you’re here?”

And Peter must know that this is everything to him, because there’s nothing teasing left in his voice when he says, “Yeah, Jason, I’m here.  Is that—that’s okay, right?” 

_Okay_? 

“You’re here, you—where are you?” he gasps, furiously wiping the tears from his face, because he’s got more important things to do than cry right now. 

“Uh, the student center?” 

That’s not far.  He’s moving without quite knowing it, and somewhere behind him he hears Marcus and the L-word yelling at him, _where’re you going_ , but it’s white noise, static, unimportant and forgotten as he flies over the grass and pavement, holding the cell phone and listening to Peter’s voice flow like salvation toward him.

“Jason, I just—I thought about everything you said.  That day, when you called me, Jason, I’d been crying.  All day, since you left.  And I started thinking, why can he still do this to me?  I mean, there was Eric, and he was kind of perfect, but Jesus, Jason.  When I saw you outside my dorm, I thought I was dreaming.  Because the only way I thought you’d ever show up was if I was dreaming.  And I knew.  I knew I wasn’t over it.  I thought I was, Jason, but I wasn’t.  And I didn’t come before now because—because I wanted to be over you.  But I’m not.  I can’t be.  And I don’t want to be anymore.  I just want—Jason, I just want you.  I want to be with you.  That’s all I ever wanted.”

And maybe they finally have some kind of cosmic timing worked out, because Peter stops talking the second Jason rounds the corner of a building and sees him, standing outside the student-center doors, late afternoon sun finding him like a spotlight. 

“Peter,” he says, and Jason’s not sure if Peter heard it over the phone or just heard it, period, but he looks up and his eyes find Jason right away, and Jason’s to him before he can take another breath, Peter’s body next to his, Peter’s face in his hands, Peter’s lips under his, and after two years of not-quite-life, he’s awake and alive and breathing, and he can see his life in front of him, and for the first time in a long time, it’s one he wants to live.

 

_the end_

 

_*_

 

_epilogue_

 

They make love until they can’t move anymore, and then they curl together in the center of Jason’s bed, arms and legs and hands tangled in a warm, comfortable heap.  Peter cradles Jason’s head against his chest, pressing kisses into Jason’s hair, hands stroking up and down Jason’s back.  Jason can’t seem to stop touching Peter, can’t not have his hands on Peter. 

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” Jason mumbles into Peter’s chest, lips tracing the skin light as thought.  “I just can’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” Peter says low, smiling. 

“And you’re not going anywhere,” Jason says, a little more questioning than he’d intended, glancing up into Peter’s face for confirmation.

“Not unless you come with me,” Peter answers, tightening his arms around Jason’s back, leaning in and kissing Jason until he can’t see.  “I’m not losing you again, Jason.  You’re _mine._ ”

Jason smiles, so happy he can’t breathe.  “I always was,” he says, meaning it, and leans back in to kiss Peter, to kiss him, to kiss him.


End file.
